


all here, in your head

by lucy_blue



Series: those cunning folk [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Slytherin Harry Potter, extras, post credit scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 10:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15604704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_blue/pseuds/lucy_blue
Summary: basically a collection of extra bits and bobbers, because shrewd slytherin is getting longer than I intended, and I can't fit all of the little extra thingies into after-chapters. not necessary to read to understand tcf and not really important plot wise, just adds a bit more depth to things and shows some extra scenes





	1. just a quick questioning quizzical query

**Author's Note:**

> Set after chapter fifteen of ss.

Harry sat in the library, Hermione across from him. Hermione was researching furiously, trying to figure out who had opened the Chamber the first time. Harry’s hands were stained with splotches of ink, drafts and drafts of half written letters all over the table, the book on wizarding etiquette open to the section on letter writing. 

Anthony Goldstein was studying nearby and he kept on glancing at them. Harry wanted to tell himself that he was crushing on Hermione but he knew he was thinking of the article, trying to imagine what Harry looked like without the billow of robes to hide how skinny he was. 

Tonks had sent a letter, a reply saying that she was ‘going to find someone who could help Harry’ (Harry doubted anyone would be able to help him, who could help against a basilisk?) and talking about her parents in a half-proud, half-embarrassed way. Harry had already responded to it- it was the only letter he’d finished- but hadn’t sent it off yet. 

He had tea with Hagrid for Friday, and three essays he was supposed to be writing and Professor Snape said he needed to stop writing so large on his essays otherwise he was doubling how many inches Harry had to write. The house elves gave him as much raw meat as he could carry but someone was going to catch him, he was going to forget the Invisibility Cloak at some point and there was no excuse good enough to explain carrying hunks of raw meat around the castle and Harry was _so tired_. 

He hoped whatever reinforcements Tonks sent, they were good. The best. He hoped they would carry raw meat around instead of Harry, and that Harry could stop worrying for five minutes. 

Harry sighed and returned to proofreading his attempt at a letter to Euphrasia Potter-Bourdeaux, who was the elderly aunt in France. He could barely talk to people who knew, how had he ended up somehow thinking he could talk to strangers who shared blood and nothing more? 

Harry was wondering if he should start all over again when he saw a flash of Weasley red hair- Percy, looking for a book. Harry stood and hurried over. “Percy?” He asked a bit nervously. 

Percy turned. His horn rimmed glasses were slipping down his nose slightly, so he adjusted them, peering down at Harry with a look of annoyance. Harry could feel his mouth drying up. “Could I, um, talk to you about something?” 

“Of course,” Percy said, still looking annoyed but perking up ever so slightly. “What do you need?” 

“I was talking to my lawyers,” Harry said quickly, “and apparently I’ve inherited seats on the- the Wizengk-” 

“Wizengamont,” Percy corrected. 

“Thanks,” Harry said, huffing a sigh. “Um, anyway. I’m underage, so I need a representative, otherwise the seats don’t count in the voting proccess, right? And, uh, Ms. Tonks- that’s one of the lawyers- said she’d hire a personal assistant and manage it herself, but, like, they’re both busy being lawyers most of the time, and it’s just until she can find someone else to manage it, and um… well, Iwaswonderingifwhenyoubecomeanadultyoucouldbemyrepresentative.” 

There was a moment of silence. Percy just stared blankly at Harry, not even reacting when his glasses slipped almost off his nose. Finally he cleared his throat several times, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and said, “As- as _deeply_ flattering as that offer is, Harry, you would really want someone with political experience. Someone a little older than seventeen. I’m sure that your lawyer can find you a great representative.” 

“Oh.” Harry deflated. 

“Thank you very much for the offer, though,” Percy said with a smile. Harry realized he’d never seen Percy smile before; he had a very nice one, small and wry, and Harry was suddenly struck with the urge to try to get him to smile more. “It’s quite nice to hear that you think I would represent you well in politics.” 

Percy headed back to his table, still smiling, whistling quietly, and with a new bounce in his step.


	2. The New York Ghost: Exclusive Interview With Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The New York Ghost's exclusive interview with Boy-Who-Lived, Weird Sisters fan and Lord of the Rings lover, Harry Potter.

I meet with Harry James Potter- the Boy Who Lived, the vanquisher of infamous British Dark Lord He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the only known person to ever survive a killing curse, etc, on a Tuesday. I booked a small, private cafe in Brooklyn for the occasion.

He’s short, even for someone his age. He has messy black hair, not quite messy enough to be considered fully untamed; I get the impression someone had attempted to clean it up, and only particularly succeed. He’s wearing dress robes that looked too big on him- not that they aren’t tailored properly, but the level of formality doesn’t seem to suit him. 

“Nice to meet you,” I say, and then introduce myself. 

He nods, responding, “Harry Potter, though I guess you already know that.” His round gold glasses don't do much to hide his gaze, which is very green, and quite sharp, especially for one so young. 

We choose a table near one of the windows. Potter almost settles his elbows onto the table, then almost as quickly tucks them away and straightens his posture even further, his face carefully blank. Despite his efforts with regards to modulating his facial expressions, I suddenly get the impression he would rather be anywhere in the world other than here. 

The waitress comes to take our order. Potter hesitates over the menu, seemingly uncertain as to what to order. Finally he says, a little bit helplessly, “I’d like some tea.” 

“What type?” The waitress asks.

“Tea,” Potter says, looking confused. 

The waitress looks confused as well, but doesn’t question it. 

As we wait for our order, I ask Potter what he thinks of New York. He shrugs.

“I haven’t seen very much of it,” he says. “Mostly just this coffee shop. I’ve got classes tomorrow, after all.” 

I am suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all, and seemingly seeing it on my face, Potter’s lips quirk upwards slightly, before he tugs them back downwards into that usual neutral expression. 

I ask him about his favorite book. He tells me he loves the Lord of the Rings series, and starts summarizing the basic premise, when I tell him that Tolkien was a squib, and a well known, and very popular, author within the Wizarding World. 

He stares at me in shock, taking several minutes to reorient his world view. “Makes sense,” he says finally, rather faintly, then after another shocked minute, he blurts out, “Oh god, when you put everything in the context of magic the message is _totally different_...” He mutters something about a mysterious “Hermione” loving it. 

When I ask him about it, he explains, “Hermione’s one of my friends. She’s absolutely brilliant- seriously, she’s scary smart. Like, she should maybe get her IQ tested or something, she’s ridiculously smart.” 

I ask him what an IQ is and he blushes. “It’s like, a test to see how smart you are. That muggles do. It’s not about like, knowledge, but, um, critical thinking, I guess? I don’t really know, but I bet Hermione would both know what is, and absolutely smash it.” 

I’m delighted that I finally seemed to have cracked through his shell. I ask him what it’s been like, getting used to living in the magical world. 

“It’s really hard,” he says, green eyes’ gaze sharpening. “You’ve got to, kind, of hit the ground running, I guess? You don’t really get any sort of explanation, or- a- a list of which magical creatures are real, and which are still made up, or anything. You don’t get people’s references, and they don’t get yours.” 

He looks like he has more to say, something negative maybe, but he sips his tea instead, smooths his face back into a relatively even expression. 

“In Wizarding America, there are classes to teach muggleborns about the Wizarding World, and wizards and witches about the muggle world,” I say. “Does Wizarding Britain not have similar classes?” 

“Not that I know of,” He says with a shrug. “There’s a lot, in a sense of like, culture, that no one explains to you. I’ve been trying to learn more about the Wizarding World, but it’s difficult. There aren’t very many resources.” 

“What was it like, learning of your status within the Wizarding World?” I ask. 

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s amused. The movement places emphasis upon the lack of baby fat in his cheeks, surely a result of his relatives’ mistreatment of him. “It’s awful,” he says. “You go from being… a nobody, to everyone thinking you’re… thinking of you as some celebrity.” 

A recent, and now infamous, issue of the Daily Prophet, alleged that Harry Potter had been abused by his muggle relatives- starved, forced to do innumerable chores, and verbally and emotionally abused- told he was worthless, not worthy of attention or praise. A nobody.

“You get this sense sometimes,” Potter says, looking nervous but forcing on, “That people only value you based on your celebrity. Not from my friends, but more from the press. Like, if I wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived, would there have been a huge article in the Daily Prophet?” 

His hands are shaking around his mug, I note. 

“I’m worried,” he confesses, “that I’ll get adopted by someone who’s just interested in, you know, adopting the Boy-Who-Lived.” 

“You are the Boy-Who-Lived,” I point out. 

“The Boy-Who-Lived is a… a persona, that’s the word,” he says. “It’s a… a… it’s larger than life. No one could fit those shoes. Did you know that there are books about me in Diagon Alley?” 

I shake my head, but I’m not particularly surprised. 

He sighs. “There are books about how at nine I was… what was it? I don’t even remember. Solving some magical mystery, or something, I think. In real life, at nine, I was mostly interested in reading the Hobbit, not solving mysteries or whatever.” 

“There are some rumors about your first year at Hogwarts…” I say. 

“Hogwarts has quite the rumor mill,” Potter says blandly. “And the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing has a really strong influence on Wizarding Britain.” 

“You didn’t say the rumors were false,” I point out. 

“Don’t you think denying something makes it kind of… more legitimate? Like there’s something you know, substantial, there to actually deny?” 

“I suppose,” I allow. “If I may ask, what House were you Sorted into, at Hogwarts?” 

“Slytherin.” He sips his tea, mostly hiding the slight upward quirk of his lips. 

Slytherin is the House of ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness; it's got a bit of a negative reputation. I ask him what the reaction to his Sorting was. 

“Everyone assumes it’s a fluke,” he shrugs. “Maybe the Hat makes mistakes like that often. I wouldn’t know.” 

The Sorting Hat is notoriously accurate. He is wearing dress robes in green, with a silver tie pin as an accent; green and silver are the colors associated with Slytherin. I nod politely.

“And what did you think, at the time?” I ask. 

“I didn’t really know what was going on,” he says, then, easily, “I still don’t really know what’s going on, but I think I’ve at least grown a bit since first year.” 

My lips quirk politely at the joke, but there is an underlying, disturbing truth to his words; he likely grew quite a bit, receiving, for the first time, as much food as he needed. 

I ask him about the trial. 

“I’m more worried about the custody thing than the trial,” he says, fingers going tight on his mug. “I’m viewed as a- a political icon. Adopting me is a political statement. But that doesn’t mean having a politician as adoptive family would actually, you know…” He trails off. 

I don’t know, not really, and when I point this out, he sighs. 

“I want someone who would have adopted me even if I was… just Harry,” he says. “I don’t want to be adopted as a political… political symbol.” 

I nod. I think I understand, now.

“Did you know that you have family, here in America?” I ask him. 

“I do,” He says, then, “I would never force myself on someone who doesn’t want me.” 

“Is that what you think happened with your Aunt and Uncle?” I ask, wondering if I’m going too far. 

“I would never force myself on someone who doesn’t want me,” Potter says again, and sips his tea. Something about his eyes looks a bit older than twelve, and I resolve to back off. He says, finally, “I think the family of one of my friends is going to try for custody. I hope that they get it.” 

I nod. The conversation trails off and we sit in comfortable silence, until finally the conversation turns back to Lord of the Rings. We discuss Lord of the Rings in the context of the magical world; Potter has surprisingly astute observations. He compares Gandalf to Dumbledore, the hobbits to the house elves, suggests that maybe the elves are supposed to represent wizards and witches. 

“I don’t know, though,” he shrugs, smiles. “Hogwarts doesn’t have classes on magical literature, at least not for second years.” 

Ilvermorny does. I point this out to him, with the implication perhaps a little too obvious, because he just smiles wryly until I move on. 

I ask him about music. He tells me he loves the Weird Sisters, a famous British band that defies genre by mixing rock with blues and metal. The combination sounds like it shouldn’t work, but they make it work, creating a new, distinctive sound; I suggest anyone not already familiar with them check them out. 

“They’re fantastic,” he says with a boyish grin. “I love their new album. I think at this point I must have the entire thing memorized.” 

He doesn’t know any music outside of the Weird Sisters. 

“I don’t have a good understanding of muggle culture either,” he says awkwardly. “I didn’t exactly, um. Spend a lot of time doing that sort of thing. My aunt and uncle didn’t really listen to music except for you know, elevator music kind of stuff.” 

Elevator music? I ask. He winces. 

“It’s a muggle saying. Bland, boring music,” he explains. “Really uncontroversial stuff, the sort that’s like, the musical equivalent of watching paint dry.” 

I feel quite well reminded of how much of my Muggle Studies class I’ve forgotten since graduating; and even if I remembered everything, I don’t think they talked about IQ tests or elevator music. 

At the end of our time, Potter seems surprised when I pay for his tea. He thanks me a few too many times, and I feel something in me ache. I hope he is adopted by someone who wants, as he said, “just Harry”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Weird Sisters, off on tour somewhere: "we have MADE IT, Harry Potter LIKES OUR MUSIC!" 
> 
> The Weird Sisters are fantastic, I love them, I have so many feelings about how hard it must have been to break into the wizarding world music scene with a rock band. 
> 
> what do you guys think of this format? would you read more stuff in this format?


	3. the dog and the man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius reflects.

Sirius felt… warm. Warm. He could feel the warmth of the guard’s Patronus, could feel a dark cloud lifting from his head. 

“This is Sirius Black, sir,” the guard said. 

Sirius met the Minister’s eyes. He couldn’t remember if this was a new Minister, or if this was the same Minister as always. 

As the Minister left, Sirius asked if he could have the newspaper. 

“It’s been so long since I did a crossword puzzle,” Sirius had croaked out. Unsettled by the sanity still left within those dark eyes, Fudge shoved the Daily Prophet through the bars. 

The warmth was starting to leach out of him when Sirius saw the headline. Harry. Harry. In danger… Harry who he’d abandoned, Harry Harry Harry… 

Azkaban does not allow for happy thoughts, for happy memories, but the memory of leaving Harry was not a happy one. Sirius payed for it a dozen times each day. Sirius’ conviction to escape for Harry was not a happy thought either, but a cold determination, so he got to keep that, too. 

Sirius could have escaped without too much difficulty at any time; it was the dementors which trapped him in this place, and not the walls. 

He found his way into the Scottish highlands, wandering aimlessly, following some instinct in him. It was only when he found himself standing by the Black Lake that he realized he had known exactly where he was going the entire time. 

Hagrid gave him food. So good. He had been starving, before, and now he had meat, meat instead of whatever he could scavenge from the trash. 

Slowly, Sirius began to come back to himself a bit. He could remember a bit about Hagrid. When Hagrid scratched behind Sirius’ ears, he thought he caught memories of a slim hand running through his hair. When he wandered the grounds with Hagrid, he caught memories of running across the grounds every full moon. 

One day Harry came to him. Others had visited, most of whom smelt of fear whenever he got too close, but also of Harry. But Harry, Harry himself, was here! Sirius was overcome with emotion and sprinted forward, kissing Harry over and over on his face. It had been so long. He was so big, so grown, from the tiny baby he had been. 

The girl said something, but Sirius didn’t pay attention. He was backing off; he could smell fear on Harry, too. Sirius cowered in shame, moving back to give him room. Of course Harry would be afraid of him. How insensitive of him to think otherwise.

Harry was extending a hand now! 

Sirius sniffed it. Harry still smelled a bit like fear, but less now, and still very much like Harry. Sirius gave Harry’s hand a kiss, and Harry laughed, making Sirius’ tail wag. “Hey buddy,” Harry said. 

Sirius loved it when Harry visited. He walked with Harry, showing him all the best places, and protecting him from anything that could possibly harm him. He also listened when Harry talked, listened when Harry tried to work through Potions problems and talked about how he wasn’t sure what to get Neville for Christmas. 

Sirius often felt guilty for not being able to answer back to Harry. He often worried about what Harry would think if he found out who Sirius really was. He would be so mad, Sirius knew. Sirius wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. Even if he forgave Sirius, he would want a man, not a dog, and Sirius didn’t know how to be a man anymore.  
Being a dog was simpler, easier. The darkness didn’t sit so deeply as a dog, and even now that the darkness of Azkaban was long gone, it still felt much safer to be a dog. Things were simple, instinctive, and now that Sirius was at Hogwarts, Hagrid was there to protect dog-Sirius, to give him meat and scratches. Hagrid wouldn’t like human-Sirius.

Maybe one day Sirius would be able to be a man, and not just a dog, but not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sirius isn't exactly in the best mental state at the moment, but who can blame him?


End file.
